


Tie-wraps

by Insertsmartnamehere



Category: Almost Human
Genre: Broken Bones, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Torture, Whump, althought it's really not that bad, beaten up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-11 14:45:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10467474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Insertsmartnamehere/pseuds/Insertsmartnamehere
Summary: Answer to this request: 'John kennex whump. I love an outnumbered, beaten up scenario with bodily injuries like broken ribs'.John began to realize he really should have thought this through.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of my first fanfics ever, so I would love to hear what you all thought of it.  
> Of course I don't own anything about this but the specific choice of words.

They had used tie-wraps instead of rope.

Seeing the situation he was in – gloomy barrack, six quite angry looking men surrounding him, an old fashioned baseball bat in a corner – he maybe shouldn’t have been this bothered by it, and yet he was. Without even the slight hope of untying knots or the strange support of straining against something stable, he felt vulnerable.

‘Ya shouldn’t have tried to arrest us,’ one of the men said. He wore a torn shirt, but John didn’t remember fighting him. Maybe the guy didn’t mind for style, or maybe he was such an unimpressive fighter John had forgotten about him right away.

‘What should I have done, then?’ he asked. ‘Arresting people is kind of my job.’

A thin line of blood trickled down the side of his face, as if someone was drawing on him in red ink. In a reflex, he tried to wipe it away; the damned tie-wrap cut his wrists.

Another man growled. ‘Find a new job.’

It should have been such an easy mission. He and Dorian had only split up for a moment, and everything would have been well if he hadn’t accidentally driven past this wrecked building and recognized the car outside; the van of a bunch of outlaws they had been following for ages. It looked too much like fate to let it pass; a single text to Dorian, that was all he the precaution he had taken before heading in. Maybe not his brightest idea ever. But where was that goddamned bot when you needed him?

John painfully realized he wasn’t getting himself out if this. Best to sit tight and hope Dorian would show up before that baseball bat was taken to action.

‘Yeah,’ he said, before he could get his stupid self to shut up. ‘Maybe I should be an assassin, like you. Way to go.’

He expected the blow, but that didn’t make it less painful. His jaw was instantly on fire; carefully he moved it, to make sure it wasn’t broken.

Torn Shirt placed a calming hand on the shoulder of the other. 'Leave that to me, would ya?’ he said. 'We still need him to talk.’

He only had to move one finger for one of the others to fetch the baseball bat. John swallowed. _It would be great if you showed up now_ , he thought, _right now, Dorian, damn you_. The man with the baseball bat had a scar on his left cheek. It made him look a little fake, a doll with a seam on the edge of his right eye. He tapped the bat on the ground, a sound like a clock, ticking away the last moments of hope.

'So, how did ya find us?’ Torn Shirt asked.

That was an easy one. John didn’t even had to lie. 'Pure luck. Or well, bad luck, in your case.’

Apparently, not the answer they wanted. The impact of the blow pushed the air out of his lungs. John was left gasping, his ears buzzing.

'Now who’s got the bad luck?’ Scar grinned.

The other men where closing in on him, forming a circle that felt more threatening then John cared to admit. He tried to muster some resistance, but all he could do was spit. The saliva was slightly red.

'Be honest,’ Torn Shirt prompted. He sounded almost nice, voice soft, hands clasped together in front of him. 'How did ya find us? What hole in our plans do we need to fix?’

'You need to fix that hole in your face: keep it shut,’ John snarled.

Torn Shirt waved as if he tried to get rid of a fly. The next moment the bat was coming down on him three times, in rapid succession. There was nothing John could do against the tears that sprang to his eyes, but he did manage to keep himself from making a sound by biting his tongue till it bled. When the smacks relented, every fiber in him was forcing him to double over, push his hands against his chest, find a quiet corner to lick his wounds. You would think one got used to pain, yet it never worked that way.

'It’s more fun when he isn’t bound to a chair,’ Scar mentioned casually. 'Can someone keep him up?’

They were too fast about it; too practiced. There wasn’t any time to fight. One moment the detective was tie-wrapped to a chair, the next two stern arms were pulling his own behind his back. The men seemed to keep coming closer, an audience to the uneven boxing match between him and that awful piece of wood.

'Hurry the fuck up.’ John forced his head upright and found Torn Shirt with his eyes. He was biting his nails, looking bored. 'Maybe his tongue needs a little loosening. I want him to scream.’

When the second hit came down, John could hear a rib break. He felt sick. Even his prosthetic knee was weak; if the man behind him let go, he would crumble to the ground. But going down without protest was not an option. Wincing and grimacing, he pulled against the arms that held him. 'Is that all you’ve got?’

He shouldn’t have done that. God, he really shouldn’t have done that.

About five minutes later, they bound him to the chair again, and he was unsure whether there were any unscattered ribs left. His breathing was noisy: short, painful gasps that didn’t give him any oxygen. Maybe one of his lungs had been punctured. _Don’t fucking let them know_ , he swore to himself. He shut his eyes so tight, not a single tear would be able to escape.

But he opened them the moment he heard the gunshot.

Dorian. The bot stood in the opened door, gun in his hands, and he had two men down before they even understood what was going on. It all went very fast, the ambush mirroring what had happened to John himself. This time, however, surprise was on his side.

When John was the only one, well, slightly upright, Dorian dropped his gun and hurried over.

'God,’ he gasped. 'What did they do to you?’

John’s face had only been hit once and his shirt was still intact, so Dorian couldn’t see the bruises that were probably already blooming. But the sheen of sweat and the paleness must have been pretty clear. Dorian fumbled with the tie-wraps, then pulled out a knife and cut them. As soon as the tension was released, John folded into himself. _Don’t be sick, please._

'Can you walk?’ Dorian questioned. “Cause we need to get out of here.’

'O'course I can,’ John mumbled, suddenly almost too tired to talk. 'Try to be faster next time.’

No reaction came. Instead, Dorian put an arm around John and hoisted him on his feet.

'Christ,’ John wheezed.

'Easy, man, come on.’

Together, they made their way out of the barrack, into the sunlight. After a few excruciating seconds, John finally lay on his back in the backseat. He didn’t remember another time he had felt so happy to be inside a car.

Dorian took the drivers seat, but didn’t immediately turn the key. His head appeared between the chairs and he looked at John with concern in his weirdly blue eyes. 'You okay?’ he asked.

'Fucking great,’ John muttered. Moving his arm hurt so bad his breath hitched into something dangerously close to a sob, but he hid his face in the crook of his elbow anyway. 'Now drive. I don’t really want to be here when they wake up.’


End file.
